Death to the Good Girl.

Stay in your lane.

Follow the rules.

Don’t make a fuss and be agreeable.

If anyone would lay out the unwritten mantra that was culturally pounded into my head from day one, it would be these. No one said it out right. But every adult expected it. Attending an all girls school from KG to senior year, one would assume that we didn’t deal with gender stereotypes. Not true. We brought it upon ourselves. Japanese mainstream media in the 90’s - and still apparent now - is filled with female archetypes of women who play the obedient, submissive role in society. Never complain, never make a fuss, do the work and play by the rules. The only way to stand out is how well they complete their responsibilities. Intentional or not, the school I attended gave each student a value by how ‘good’ they were. Be a good student, be a good athlete, have a good repertoire with the teachers. If you weren't in one of these categories, then it somehow becomes a question of morality and ethics. Are you a good person? Does your family instill good values in you? We were taught that if you follow the rules and obey, you will be successful, be happy and get everything you want…and if you don’t, well then you fail.

It took me almost 30 years to undo this tightly bound sense of identity and learn that these ‘rules’ were fucking bogus. They were duct tape over my mouth and smoke to numb my thoughts.

I still have to fight back these ‘rules’ but my true voice is louder now. But at one of the most crucial moments in my life the ‘good girl’ took over.

It was New Year’s Eve and I was in labor with my son. My labor was long. I wasn’t dilating and I wasn’t ready to get an epidural. After 16 hrs the attending doctor on call suggested an epidural again. My usual doctor was out on vacation. I said no. She then pushed for a cesarean. It would be quick, she said, and we can all get out of here. My good girl voice spoke inside. I didn’t want to burden everyone on New Year’s Eve, maybe I should just get it done. But I didn’t want to and my husband was right there reminding me that this isn’t what we wanted unless it was completely necessary. We declined, and the doctor sighed and says, “Well then I’m going home. I’ll come back when you start dilating. It’s going to be a while, you’re not even close.” I was uncomfortable with the way she spoke to me and kept pushing things I didn’t want. After several hours of painful tense labor I was getting anxious, not dilating at all. I asked for an epidural out of sheer exhaustion. After it was administered I slept, and when I woke up I was at 10cm and was directed to start pushing. The doctor instructed a few more pushes then picked up the scissors and gave me an episiotomy. She then suctioned my son out. Overjoyed with the birth and numb with the anesthetics I wasn’t quite clear on what she had done.

Next day she explained that I have a 3rd degree tear but the stitches all look good and should all heal great. She asked if I had any questions. The good girl completely took over. I asked a few questions on treatment and then kept my mouth shut. She left and I cried.

I could feel the skin pulling tight in the most vulnerable areas. The mental image I had of the stitches ripping was enough for me to be afraid of everything I did. Once we got home I couldn’t walk. I couldn't lift my leg to get in the shower, I couldn't go up the stairs. I lived in my living room for 2 months before I felt comfortable enough to go upstairs. When I went back to my clinic for the post birth check up, my usual doctor was back from vacation and asked how everything went. I clammed up again. He brought up the episiotomy from the charts and asked how that was. It was fine, I said. My husband was livid but I urged him not to make a scene. This unconsented episiotomy did a number on me emotionally and snowballed into postpartum anxiety. I spent half of my maternity leave crying and having nightmares of my stitches ripping.

7 years later, thinking of that day when the doctor came into my hospital room still boils my blood. Agreeing with her was more important than telling her that what she did was not alright with me. It was my body and she had to ask for my consent. It wasn’t an emergency procedure, it just made things easier for her.

I wish I spoke up. I wish I had made a scene.

And so whenever the good girl starts to creep up inside of me I tell her shhhh…please shut the fuck up.